


To Resist and To Yield

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Resist [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, M/M, Rough Sex, Sub Alistair (Dragon Age), Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: Daylen Amell really wishes Alistair was easier to hate. Then maybe he could stop thinking about what he'd look like on his knees.





	To Resist and To Yield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luffymarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luffymarra/gifts).

> “For nothing [...] is more heavenly than to resist and to yield; to yield and to resist.”  
Virginia Woolf, _Orlando_

It starts with a challenge that wasn't supposed to be a challenge.

They've been on the road for weeks, and Daylen sometimes feels like every single day has brought at least one fight. Darkspawn, bandits, deserters from the army, and the army itself, all intent on their death. The only difference seems to be whether their attackers would be willing to spare their lives in exchange for their valuables, but it's an academic distinction at best: Daylen has no interest in surrendering their only chance of succeeding against the Blight. So they fight.

And fight.

And fight.

"At least we're getting lots of practice, right?" Alistair says, the first night they camp inside the Brecilian Forest itself.

Daylen expects to meet the Dalish--or be met by them--tomorrow or the following day at the latest. Worries over the outcome of that meeting have turned themselves into a holy choir in his head, chanting at all hours of the day and night in harmony with each other, and his patience for Alistair is thin at the best of times. He doesn't like or trust templars, not even former templar recruits who never took the final vows. Alistair has a templar's power, and that's all Daylen needs to know.

He has to remind himself about that sometimes. Alistair, it turns out, is hard to hate, and it gets harder the longer Daylen knows him. Some days, he finds himself thinking, _Do something so I have a reason to be mad at you and can stop feeling stupid about it,_ and even angry, he recognizes that as ridiculous. That's usually when Daylen feigns exhaustion and crawls into his tent early so he can seethe without having to feel guilty.

Now, Daylen looks across the fire to where Alistair sits on the far side, repairing a few links in his chainmail where a darkspawn spear punched through it this afternoon. The reminder of that injury, taken when Alistair stepped right in front of said spear, makes Daylen scowl.

Mainly because Alistair only stepped in front of that spear to take the blow himself, rather than let it go straight through Daylen's stomach. Tonight is not the night for Alistair to make jokes.

_Practice?_ Daylen wants to grab him and ask him if he remembers how close he came to dying today. And yesterday. Really, almost every day since the two of them met.

Instead, Daylen says, "Doesn't look like I'm the one who needs practice." He hates himself for the words as soon as they're out, but he doesn't take them back. He didn't _ask_ Alistair to step in front of that spear, and he would have been just as able to heal himself as he was able to heal Alistair.

Probably.

Alistair, Maker take him, looks faintly hurt but doesn't have the decency to retaliate, or even call Daylen out on the blatant unfairness of his statement. At least if he did, Daylen could have a good fight and burn off some of the nerves he knows will keep him awake tonight.

"Nobody gets better without practice," Alistair says mildly.

Morrigan snorts from beyond the circle of firelight. "Some of us have farther to go than others."

Her words aren't half as harsh as Daylen's, but he scowls at her anyway. She never misses an opportunity to take a swipe at Alistair, and it grates on Daylen more every day.

Where Alistair let Daylen's comment pass, he gives Morrigan a look almost as dark as the one Daylen is giving her.

"Because you're already perfect?" Alistair asks, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Certainly closer to it than some," Morrigan says.

Alistair gives that a disbelieving snort, and the conversation goes downhill from there.

Which is how they find themselves in a lovely moonlit clearing turned garishly lit fighting ring, fighting each other instead of darkspawn, bandits, or the army. They call it sparring, but everyone knows it's less about improving their skills and more about weeks of snide comments and glares. Leliana shakes her head worriedly, Sten shakes his head disapprovingly, and Barkspawn just shakes her head. Daylen makes a note to check that she hasn't picked up ear mites again.

In the ring, Morrigan hefts her staff, standing hipshot and bored. Alistair is the exact opposite, focused and ready the way he is before any fight, sword and shield in position. Watching the two of them, Daylen knows who will win, and it has nothing to do with their respective level of skill.

Leliana--roped into serving as adjudicator because no one wanted to brave Sten's frown--raises her hand high in the air. She holds it there for a moment with a bard's flare for the dramatic, and then drops it down to signal the start of the fight.

Morrigan drops with it, or nearly, knocked flat by the smite Alistair unleashed the instant Leliana's hand came down. He doesn't waste time, either, or assume that because she's down she'll stay that way: he's across the ring before Daylen can blink, tapping the edge of his sword lightly against her unarmored throat.

Leliana doesn't even bother to declare the winner.

Daylen crosses to Morrigan as soon as Alistair steps back, giving her a hand to her feet and holding her there as she sways. He wants to cuff the back of her head more often than not, but seeing any mage knocked down by a templar's smite makes him angry.

"You cheated!" Morrigan accuses, finger stabbing slightly to the left of Alistair's current position. Having taken more than his fair share of templar smites, Daylen assumes her eyes still aren't quite focusing.

Offended, Alistair draws himself up, but before he can do more than open his mouth, Sten says, "He did not. You failed to take the fight seriously, and you lost."

Alistair closes his mouth slowly, as if he can't quite believe his ears. Daylen smiles despite himself, then wipes the expression away when Alistair catches sight of it and smiles back.

Now irritated with everyone except possibly the dog, Daylen leaves Morrigan to hold herself up and says, "My turn."

Alistair returns to his side of the unofficial ring, and Daylen moves a little way off from Morrigan, readying himself without drawing power yet. He doesn't do that until Leliana drops her hand, but as soon as she does, he slams magic outward to knock Alistair flat. Templars are always slower the second time they have to smite someone, as if using a tired muscle.

He doesn't let Alistair recover, sending two glowing darts flying from his hand. The darts stop an inch from Alistair's eyes, one centered on the left and one centered on the right.

"Yield," Alistair says and very carefully does not blink until Daylen banishes the darts.

Then Alistair is up and grinning, and why couldn't he at least be a sulky loser? That would make it so much easier to stay mad at him.

"It doesn't count if you let him win," Morrigan says to Alistair, in that same snide tone that always seems to cut off Daylen's ability to think logically and turns him into an eight-year-old.

Why be mad at Alistair when he can be mad at Morrigan instead?

Alistair flushes in anger. "I don't 'let' people win."

Daylen can believe that, and sympathize with his anger. Daylen doesn't let people win either, though in his case it's competitiveness, where in Alistair's it's a sense of fair play.

"You'd let him do anything," Morrigan says nastily.

Alistair goes from red with anger to white with it. Actually, what he looks is ill, and Daylen can sympathize with that, too. He's been angry enough to feel sick plenty of times in the past, and it never does anything except make him angrier.

Leliana steps in before Daylen can say anything. "Are we done for this evening, then?" She usually ignores Morrigan and Alistair's arguing, but tonight she looks deeply uncomfortable. It seems Daylen isn't the only one dreading tomorrow.

"No," Alistair snaps, "we're not." He stomps back to his end of the field, staring straight ahead and refusing to meet anyone's eyes. When he gets to his place, he doesn't immediately turn around to face them; instead, he stares into the trees like he can set fire to them if he tries hard enough. Though it's probably Morrigan he wants to burn, rather than the hapless trees.

Leliana looks at Daylen like she's waiting for him to overrule Alistair. As if Daylen is going to stop anyone from fighting to burn off anger.

"Let's go a few more rounds," Daylen says, and Leliana sighs but takes her place.

It takes a while, but eventually Alistair shakes off his anger, and by the time they've all tired themselves out, he's back to his usual smiling self. For all he pretends to be annoyed by it, Daylen is secretly glad, and when they all return to the fire, he goes to sit beside Alistair after only a brief hesitation.

"Thank you," he says quietly, touching his stomach to indicate the spot where the spear hit Alistair this afternoon. The spear Alistair took so Daylen didn't have to find out if he could heal himself while bleeding from a gut wound.

Alistair smiles at him, and Daylen hadn't known it was a mistake to sit beside him, but it turns out that it was. Alistair's smile is very close, which means Alistair's mouth is very close, and Daylen realizes it's the first time Alistair has smiled at him when Daylen wasn't angry at him for something.

He's really going to have to make sure to stay mad at Alistair from now on.

###

Later that night, alone in his tent, angry is not the word for what Daylen feels as he thinks about Alistair. That he has his cock in his hand and is thinking about Alistair on his knees might have something to do with the difference.

###

The sparring becomes a nightly occurrence between the two of them, Morrigan having declined with a sneer the next night. Daylen tells himself it's a brilliant idea, because there's nothing like someone trying to kill him to make him angry, even if it is a mock fight.

It is not a brilliant idea. It is the opposite of a brilliant idea to spend part of every evening alone with Alistair, whose preferred style of combat involves getting very very close. Of course, usually right after Daylen makes the mistake of letting him get that close, Daylen is flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, so that's something.

But not much.

Some days, the only thing that keeps Daylen from doing something stupid is reminding himself that he and Alistair want very different things. Daylen wants to push Alistair to his knees, grab his hair, and fuck his mouth. Alistair almost certainly wants less hair pulling and more whispered endearments.

###

Daylen is not in a good mood the day they leave the Brecilian Forest. He's already had his fill of being lied to and manipulated by templars; he doesn't need the same from werewolves and elves.

Which makes it a worse idea than usual when he agrees to spar with Alistair that evening, but Daylen doesn't let that stop him.

For once distracted rather than fueled by his anger, Daylen loses the first three fights in quick succession. Losing does nothing for his mood, and neither does the headache brought on by three smites. When the fourth fight ends the same way, plus the added insult of a bloody lip, the anger crystallizes into a sharp, burning rage.

Daylen gets slowly to his feet and spits blood from his mouth.

"Are you-" Alistair begins.

"Again," Daylen interrupts. He grabs a rock from the ground and tosses it straight up into the air, readying himself for the moment it hits the ground.

For the first time tonight, everything snaps into place, the Fade bending time _for_ him rather than against him. A blast of magic knocks Alistair over, and he barely rolls away in time to avoid the bolt of lightning Daylen sends his way. Still on the ground, he aims a smite at Daylen, but he's done that four times already tonight. He's tired, and most of the force of the smite slides off the shell of Daylen's rage.

To his credit, Alistair didn't wait to see if it has the desired effect; he's already halfway to his feet by the time Daylen shakes it off and throws another spell at him. This one freezes him in place, and Daylen follows it up with another spell to cloud Alistair's thoughts and prevent another smite, even if he has the strength for it.

After four losses in a row, the victory means more than it should, for what's really nothing but a sparring match. Daylen savors it anyway.

Vibrating from his elation at winning and the anger still bubbling in his chest, Daylen stalks across the field to where Alistair is trapped. The spell caught him on one knee, in the process of rising, and now he's held like that until the spell dissipates or Daylen releases him. Alistair is shaking his head, trying to clear the spell of confusion from his mind like water from his ears.

Without thinking, Daylen pulls Alistair's helmet off and grabs his head with both hands, pushing his fingers through the short hair as he takes away the last of Alistair's ability to move. Daylen is breathing hard, even though the casting wasn't especially strenuous, and he pushes Alistair's head back so the first thing he'll see when the confusion clears is Daylen's face smirking at him in triumph.

Alistair's hair is damp with sweat, his face flushed red with exertion; sword-work requires a lot more physical effort than mage-work, and his mouth is open as he pants harder than Daylen. The spell holds his shield arm up and a little out, with his sword hand hanging down, caught just a moment after Alistair pushed off from the ground with his fist.

Drunk on anger and victory and Alistair’s closeness, Daylen loosens the spell just enough to shove Alistair’s shield out of the way with his hip. He steps in, his knee against Alistair’s thigh, his forearms nearly resting on Alistair’s shoulders. Daylen’s hands are spread so wide the fingers curl all the way to the back of Alistair’s head while the thumbs dig in to his cheeks hard enough to dent the skin. Skin that’s burning hot the few places it touches Daylen’s, and he wants-

Alistair blinks clear of the fog, and Daylen can see the moment he understands what’s changed in the few seconds he was unaware. The spell holding him frozen, and Daylen looming over him, too close for anything except a threat.

Well. There is one other thing it could be.

Daylen isn’t sure what reaction he’s expecting: embarrassment for the way Daylen is standing so close, anger over his gloating, or maybe just the same rueful grin Alistair gives every time he loses a match, accompanied by the same cheerfully resigned "I yield." Daylen is not expecting Alistair to stop breathing while his eyes go huge and dark. In the light of the wisps Daylen scattered around their practice ground, he can watch the flush fade and Alistair’s face go pale.

Which is when Daylen realizes his cock is hard. Very hard. Tenting-the-front-of-his-trousers hard. It’s not quite at Alistair’s eye level, but it’s too close for Alistair to have missed it.

Daylen all but leaps backward, stumbling over the point of Alistair’s sword in his haste to get away. He tries to say something--an abject apology seems a good place to start--but his mouth won’t form words and his throat can’t produce so much as a squeak. The best he can do is release the spell pinning Alistair in place and hope Alistair will forget all about this.

Alistair licks his lips, and even now Daylen can’t stop his eyes from tracking the movement. Neither of them is breathing, the clearing completely silent.

Then Alistair draws in a huge, shuddering breath, looks Daylen straight in the eye, and says, "I didn’t say I yield." Despite the way his voice cracks in the middle, he doesn't stutter or hesitate.

From someone with more experience, Daylen would hear a blatant invitation in those words, but Alistair is the opposite of experienced. He can't possibly mean it that way.

_Why not?_ whispers an intrigued voice in the back of Daylen's head.

_Because he can't,_ Daylen snaps back.

"Alistair," he begins, then can't think of a good way to say, _"Please get up before I forget you don't mean that the way it sounds, because if I forget, the first thing I'm going to do is fuck your mouth, and by the way, could you please stop licking your lips."_

"I didn't say I yield." Alistair's voice doesn't crack this time. He's also still down on one knee, so close to the position Daylen trapped him in that Daylen actually has to stop and check that the spell is gone.

It is.

Alistair still hasn't gotten up.

"Let's go," Daylen says, and he can hear the strain in his own voice. "We're done for tonight. Back to camp. The others will be wondering what happened to us." It hasn't been nearly long enough for anyone to wonder any such thing, but Daylen doesn't care how blatant the lie is. Any lie is better than the truth.

Alistair says nothing, just tips his chin up. For a second, Daylen thinks it's a show of stubbornness, and then the world tilts sideways as Alistair tips his chin up higher. Not raising his chin. Showing his throat.

"Alistair," Daylen says, anger filling him. Most of that anger is for himself, but it turns the words sharp anyway. "Get. Up. Now."

Alistair says nothing, does nothing, just kneels on the ground with his throat bared and his arms exactly where Daylen left them.

Daylen wraps his hand around Alistair's throat, and it isn't until that moment that he realizes he's closed the distance between them. He keeps his touch gentle, in contrast to the anger in his voice. "We're done, because I don't think you understand what will happen if we're _not_ done."

Under Daylen's fingers, Alistair's pulse is pounding, and he's breathing in short gasps, like someone taken by a fit of terror and about to curl into a ball or lash out at anything in reach. There's fear in his eyes, too.

Not terror, though. Not the kind of irrational fear that leaves people unable to think. And it isn't _just_ fear.

Daylen's own heart is pounding now, beating so hard he can feel it in his fingertips, thudding in time with Alistair's. He drops his voice low, hoping to hide the way it shakes. "I know what you think you're offering, but it's not going to go the way you think."

"You don't," Alistair says.

"What?" Daylen asks, confusion momentarily drowning the anger.

"You don't know what I think I'm offering." His voice is as low as Daylen's, and probably for the same reason. Daylen can feel him trembling. "And I haven't said that I yield."

The roaring in Daylen's ears might be his pulse, or it might be a sign he's suddenly gone deaf. Nothing else could explain what he thought he just heard.

Except Alistair is staring back at him, eyes wide. With fear, yes, but it's the kind of fear Daylen has seen in him before a fight: aware he could be hurt but eager for it anyway.

Daylen shoves his thumb between Alistair's lips. No warning, no hesitation, no request for permission by so much as a raised eyebrow, just Daylen's thumb forcing Alistair's mouth open and his tongue down. Alistair needs to understand that whatever he thinks he knows, he really doesn't know what he's offering.

Alistair groans. His eyes slide shut, and he leans in to choke _himself_ on Daylen's thumb, and he fucking _groans_.

"Alistair." Now it's Daylen's voice cracking, and he has to stop after that one word, because he doesn't have any idea what he wants to say.

_Liar,_ whispers that little voice. It sounds smug.

It's also right.

In less than a second, he re-casts the spell he used to bind Alistair, wrapping it every bit as tight as it was before. The only thing he doesn't bind is Alistair's sword hand where it holds the hilt of his sword a few inches off the ground.

"If you want me to stop," Daylen says, no cracking or shaking now he's not fighting himself, "drop your sword. At any time."

Alistair tightens his grip.

Daylen doesn't wait for more permission than that. He grips Alistair's chin, thumb pressing down on his tongue and knuckles digging in to his throat. "Suck."

And Alistair does, with a groan of relief like Daylen's just taken some horrible burden from him.

The tiny part of Daylen's brain that can still think looks around the clearing and extinguishes all of the wisps except the one closest to them. They don't need to light the whole area, but Daylen _will_ have enough light to watch Alistair if it means walking all the way back to camp to get a Maker-forsaken lantern. He needs to be able to see this, Alistair sucking eagerly, eyes closed, face flushed again, looking like every fantasy Daylen has jerked off to in the last month, but more.

By some grace of Andraste, the fingers of Daylen's free hand get his trousers unlaced without tangling or snapping anything. The feel of a hand around his cock, even if that hand is his own, is enough to make him gasp, the muscles in his thighs and ass clenching tight. He could get himself off like this, probably embarrassingly fast, and he can't stop himself from stroking up and down the shaft a few times as he watches Alistair.

With an effort of will, Daylen pulls his thumb most of the way from Alistair's mouth. The spell keeps Alistair from following, but he tries, mouthing and licking at the tip of Daylen's thumb where it's pressed against his bottom teeth. Or he does, until he notices Daylen's cock, now only a few inches from his mouth.

His gaze jumps to Daylen's, and it's all written across his face: fear, eagerness, want, a combination that grips Daylen's balls and starts them aching.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth," Daylen tells him conversationally. "And you're going to take it."

Alistair starts to nod eagerly, but Daylen's hand on his chin stops him.

"I didn't ask your permission," Daylen says in the same easy tone. "If you're still holding that sword, I don't care what you want. I want to use your mouth, so I will." Alistair's pupils dilate even wider at the word _use_, and Andraste save them both, Daylen will think about that reaction every time he jerks off for the next year. "The only thing you're going to do is keep your teeth out of my way. Your mouth is mine until I'm done with it, and I'm not done with it until I've come and you've swallowed all of it."

The sound Alistair makes is entirely unfair, half whine and half moan and almost enough to make Daylen sorry he's about to block that mouth.

Almost, but not really.

He pushes three of his fingers between Alistair's lips, forcing his mouth open wider. As if he has to actually use force when Alistair is stretching his own mouth open, asking for it with everything except words.

_Would you beg for my cock, if I told you to?_ Probably, and Daylen wants to hear him do it someday, but today that eager, waiting mouth is too much to resist.

Daylen keeps his first thrust slow, watching Alistair's face as Daylen's cock pushes into his mouth, the way his eyes close and he strains forward against the spell holding him in place. He looks utterly lost in the sensation, drowning and wanting more anyway. That he gags and chokes when Daylen gives him more doesn't seem to have any effect on his eagerness for it.

It's nearly overwhelming just watching his face, and when Daylen's cock is as deep as it will go, he cups the back of Alistair's neck to hold them in place for a moment. Daylen wants to memorize all of it, Alistair's near-euphoric expression as his lips circle the base of Daylen's cock and his throat works futilely against the head blocking off his air. He looks like a saint in some holy painting, communing with the Maker, but Daylen's never seen anything this perfect in a chantry.

He pulls out almost as slowly as he pushed in, hungry for every one of Alistair's reactions, from the relief at being able to breath, to the disappointment that has him trying to chase Daylen's cock. He's making a serious effort to break the spell's hold, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tight as the magic refuses to let him lean far enough forward.

His hair isn't quite long enough for a decent hold, so Daylen grabs the sides of his head instead. Alistair seems to like that better, relaxing into Daylen's hands, no longer fighting to keep his mouth around Daylen's cock. Passive now, waiting for whatever Daylen wants to do.

What Daylen wants to do is pound into his mouth, but he doesn't. He teases himself with the anticipation of it, long slow glides in and out, his cock disappearing into Alistair's mouth an inch at a time and withdrawing just as slowly, wet and glistening in the light. Once he starts to fuck Alistair's mouth for real, he won't last long, and he wants to watch Alistair's face as long as possible. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look so good like this, desperate for it but willing to wait until Daylen gives it to him.

Something in Daylen snaps, the pressure too much for him to bear, and his body moves without his command. Between one stroke and the next, he's driving his cock between Alistair's lips as hard and as fast as he can, with no effort to transition gradually to a harder pace. He slams his cock into Alistair's mouth, hitting the back of his throat every time, and it doesn't matter if Alistair chokes on it, the next stroke is no gentler.

He uses Alistair's mouth the way he told Alistair he would, without regard for anything except that soft wet heat and how good it feels when his cock slides into it. By Alistair's rapt expression, Daylen had been wrong earlier: he'd thought Alistair had no idea what he was asking for, but his face is that of a man who's wanted something for years and, having suddenly been gifted with it, finds it a hundred times better than his dreams. His lips are swollen, and his cheeks are wet with tears, his eyes watering as he chokes on Daylen's cock, but his fist is white-knuckle tight around the hilt of his sword.

That's the image burning in Daylen's head at the end, when his hands clutch Alistair's head to hold them both steady against the harsh jerking of his hips and his own head falls back. He sees Alistair on his knees in surrender, overwhelmed and desperate to be used, and it surges through him, wave after blinding wave, fed by the feel of Alistair swallowing around the head of his cock.

Everything is a little hazy when Daylen can think again, but he manages to neither fall on Alistair nor hurt himself dropping to his own knees. Once there, he props his forehead on Alistair's shoulder and listens to Alistair pant for breath while he tries to remember how his hands are supposed to work. Just as soon as he figures that out, he can get one of them around Alistair's cock and see how he looks when he comes. Daylen would very much like to know if he'll continue to look like the Maker is speaking to him when his cock is pulsing in Daylen's fist.

Alistair's armor is an unexpected complication, and one Daylen can't figure out how to solve without either wrecking the chainmail--quicker--or ending his spell--more practical. He eventually settles on practical, because he'd prefer to keep Alistair's armor intact so that it can hopefully do the same for Alistair.

The disappointed noise Alistair makes when the spell ends is surprisingly arousing, given how little time Daylen's body has had to recover from coming so hard he almost literally fell over. Disappointed or not, Alistair at least seems to be on the same page with Daylen, though they're not exactly coordinated in their efforts to get Alistair out of his chainmail. Still, they manage it without anyone taking any permanent damage, and Daylen is starting to grin as he reaches for Alistair's laces, only to have Alistair knock his hand away.

Daylen blinks at him in surprise. Surely he's not getting shy now?

"No," Alistair grates out, his throat so raw-sounding Daylen would feel bad except for the cock straining the front of his trousers and the memory of the near-ecstasy on his face as his throat was fucked into its current state.

"No?"

"You said," Alistair starts, then breaks off with a grimace. He clears his throat and tries again, whispering and terse to spare his throat. "You said, use me. That's not."

It takes Daylen a second to fill in the rest of the words, then his eyes narrow to ward off the feral smile trying to spread over his face. He keeps his expression harsh as he reaches for Alistair's laces again, jerking them apart with rough, careless movements until he can shove his hand inside to get hold of Alistair's cock. Alistair's eyes close and his hips rock involuntarily. Daylen thinks about holding on, about jerking Alistair off like this because Maker, he wants to feel Alistair come in his grip.

But Alistair gave Daylen what he wanted and then some. Ending the game before Alistair is ready to be done with it, for a purely selfish reason, is not something Daylen is prepared to do.

So he lets go of Alistair's cock and grabs his wrist instead, dragging Alistair's hand between his own legs. "Finish it," he says, trying to find a balance between boredom and irritation when all he wants to do is laugh in delight. "Don't make it my problem."

Alistair gives a small moan, so quiet Daylen only hears it because of how close they are right now, and wraps his hand around his cock. His strokes are fast and frantic, and he leans forward, body already starting to shake. The angle tilts his face to where Daylen can't see it, and that's not fair at all. If Daylen doesn't get to jerk him off, he at least should get to watch.

Fortunately, it's an easy problem to solve. He grabs Alistair's hair and uses that to pull his head back, into the light where Daylen can watch his face. Then, on a sudden inspiration, he shoves three fingers into Alistair's open mouth without letting go of his hair.

"That's how I want to see you," Daylen tells him, letting his own eagerness play in his voice. "Ready to beg, except your mouth is too full of my cock."

A violent shudder goes through Alistair's entire body, and Daylen tightens the hand in his hair.

"I want you on your knees every day, because this?" He pushes down on Alistair's tongue, careful not to let his fingers go too deep into his mouth. "This is too beautiful not to use as often as I can."

Another shudder wracks Alistair, even more violent than the first, and he comes, groaning around Daylen's fingers and pulling against the hand in his hair as his cock pulses. The look on Alistair's face is every bit as good as Daylen hoped.

When Alistair is done and reduced to a shivering mess, Daylen mentally declares the game finished and gets Alistair lying down in the grass to breathe. His first instinct is to pull back a little, to give Alistair time to think about what happened and decide how he feels about it, but when he starts to do that, a look of hurt flashes across Alistair's face before he shuts his eyes.

"Hey," Daylen says, using the back of his hand to wipe away the dampness lingering on Alistair's cheeks.

Alistair's eyes open, his expression surprised and wary.

"I'm happy to play that game any time," Daylen says, "but you know it's just a game, right? I'm not really going to use you and walk away."

Alistair gives him a look from the corner of one eye, and that tells Daylen everything he needs to know. He considers Alistair for a moment, decides he's breathing all right at this point, and stretches himself out on Alistair's chest.

Ignoring Alistair's "oomph!" of surprise, Daylen says, "It was a game. A fun one, but a game." He strokes Alistair's hair, lets his hand drift down to cup one cheek and hold Alistair steady for a kiss. Alistair's surprise and inexperience give Daylen the advantage, which he abuses ruthlessly to take and keep control of the kiss. He licks into Alistair's mouth, not even trying to be chaste or sweet, and wordlessly encourages Alistair to do the same.

By the time Daylen pulls back, they're both breathing hard, and Alistair is wide-eyed and eager again. It looks good on him.

Daylen trails his fingers down Alistair's cheek to his neck. The angle isn't great, but he manages to wrap his hand around the side of Alistair's neck and press his thumb into the soft skin below Alistair's chin.

"So," he drawls, looking up from his hand to smirk into Alistair's face. "Now do you yield?"

Alistair hesitates, raising a hand to the side of his neck that's not covered by Daylen's palm. "Yes," he rasps out eventually.

Daylen's eyebrows fly up in surprise and the beginnings of concern--did he take things too far too fast?--until Alistair grins at him. "Just for now." He's still whispering to spare his voice, which sounds awful even at that volume. "Strategic retreat."

"Live to fight another day?" Daylen asks dryly.

"Hope so," Alistair says. The look he gives Daylen is full of that hope, wordlessly asking Daylen to say that yes, there will be another day. It's not an anxious look, the kind that says, _"I need you to say it."_ This is a look that says, _"I want you to say it just because I like to hear it."_

Daylen leans in and bites Alistair's lower lip. "Oh, there'll be another day," he promises against Alistair's mouth. Then he grins. "But next time, we're doing this without your Maker-damned armor."


End file.
